Selfless, Cold, And Composed
by Lucky Denver Mint
Summary: Frank and the team are sent to Boston to help on a trafficking case. Amelia Malcolm was the agent formerly in charge, and she's none too happy about them getting involved. Rated for later content.


Disclaimer: I don't own shit. Except for Amelia and Roman.

"Why... won't... you... start!" Amelia stormed in between delivering blows to the shell of the '67 Mustang she'd promised to help her brother restore. "Stubborn old cow," she seethed through gritted teeth, reaching an arm up to wipe the sweat off her brow. Of course, middle of the damn summer and Roman decides he's going to buy the car he's dreamed of since he was six. Only it's not a whole car. It's a frame with some rusted out panels and Amelia gets volunteered to rebuild the engine block. Their parents wouldn't even let Roman change the oil in his own car ever since that incident with their father's old GTO. Suffice it to say, that car was now sitting in a salvage yard. You can only repair so much.

"Hey sis!" Amelia heard behind her and she turned to see Roman standing on the front porch of their parents' two story suburban home, "How's she coming?" Amelia groaned inwardly.

"Roman Finian Malcolm, if you ever get another idea in your head like this, I will personally beat you until your ears bleed." she responded, leaning herself idly against the grill and crossing her arms.

"That bad huh?"

"Worse." she replied, shifting back onto her feet and walking toward the house. "But I'm not going to deal with it right now. I'm taking a shower, eating some lunch, and maybe, if you're lucky, driving to the auto parts place this evening to see if I can find a new battery for this beast." She ascended the few steps between her and the heaven that is central air conditioning.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Roman said as the siblings walked through the door and into the wonderfully cool entryway, "Someone called for you, agent Wilks?" Amelia snapped around to face Roman, her gray eyes wide.

"What?" When?" she asked.

"Like, I don't know, thirty minutes ago."

"Jesus Christ, Roman, why didn't you come get me? This is work. It's important."

"It's Saturday."

"That doesn't matter!" she shouted, thoroughly flustered now with circumstances.

"You two stop that." she heard the rough, deeply accented voice of her father from the top of the stairs. Both siblings turned to look at him as he began his descent. "You're adults," he grumbled, "Now start acting like it."

"Sorry daddy." Amelia said, pushing a stray wavy brown lock out of her face, "Guys, I've got to get going."

"Well, aren't you going to shower?" Roman asked, but Amelia was already headed for the door.

"No time."

* * *

She knew that her clothing was less than appropriate, but when she called agent Wilks the irritable little troll was in a positive uproar and she knew proper attire would have to wait. That is, after all, what they got for calling her in on a weekend. In the meantime, she was trying to straighten her mass of wavy brown hair while navigating through traffic. Giving up entirely, she dug a gray bandana out of the glove box of her car and, while stopped at a traffic light, folded it diagonally and tied it around her head. A quick glance in the mirror on the sun visor confirmed that the bandana would do for the moment, her bangs peeking out from under the gray cloth. Now she had to deal with the tank top. Foul hair was forgivable. Spaghetti straps were not. If she remembered correctly, there was a black corduroy jacket stuffed under the passenger seat. At the next light, she leaned over and dug under the adjacent seat, pulling out bank receipts and shopping bags that hadn't seen the light of day for months. When finally she emerged victorious with a slightly crumpled but nonetheless serviceable jacket, the nut in the Mercedes behind her began honking. The light had changed. 

By the time she arrived at the office, Amelia was still at least ten minutes away from entering the building. An exhaustive search of the glove box, trunk, and the underside of her car seats had come up fruitless. This was at least the tenth time she'd lost her federal ID and building pass. It was a bad sign for any agent. Still, she thought as she slipped on her shoulder holster, at least she'd found her gun. She'd reached a point where she was willing to give up the search and tell Wilks to come down and let her in since she didn't have her magnetic building pass and the building was closed for the weekend. However, as she reached into her purse to dig out her cell phone, the ID and the building pass magically appeared right where they were supposed to be.

"Huh," she muttered, "I knew it."

* * *

"Malcolm, what is this?" Wilks tore in the minute she strolled through the door, "It took you 45 minutes to get here. And the way you're dressed, it's..." 

"Would you have preferred I took maybe an hour and a half to get here?" she asked simply, making her way through the empty and only half lit hallway to her office.

"Listen, I called you in here on the trafficking case." he began, realizing it was essentially useless to bicker with her now.

"I assumed as much. Has there been a breakthrough?"

"Not yet," he sighed, slowing and stopping in the middle of the hall. Amelia slowed to a stop and turned to face him. Her face went from confusion to suspicion in a moment.

"What's going on?" she asked, "Tell me, Walter."

"DC assigned a special task force, some group from Chicago. They're UC agents, we're going to try and infiltrate the trafficking organization." he said, "Listen I know this is rough for you..."

"Rough!" Amelia bellowed, "Rough, Wilks? This is my case. I have been doing everything I can to get these bastards for what they're doing and suddenly it's not good enough?"

"Oh, stop it Malcolm. You know very well that this has been a long time in the making. There's been a lot of national coverage and we're starting to get pressure straight from the top. This is big, and we need help. You can't deny that."

"So if you're pulling me off, why'd you have to call me in?" Amelia asked, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"You're still on the case, Malcolm, you'll be supervising and coordinating agency resources."

"You make it sound so fabulous, Wilks, you really do."

"Knock it off, Malcolm. I had bend over backwards to keep you on this case. So if you still want to be involved, you're going to have to suck it up and learn to deal with taking orders. You'll be second in charge, it's not that bad."

"Wilks, I'll be taking orders from some chump from Chicago on a case they're just now getting involved in. Explain to me how it could get worse."

"You could be knocked back to desk duty, Malcolm." Wilks said simply, "Now pull yourself together, I want you to meet the team."

* * *

The office they had been herded into was cramped at best. Had it not been for boxes of files and stacks of folders precariously balanced on one another, they would have perhaps been more comfortable. The desk itself looked like an F5 twister had come through. The walls were covered with posters for various movies, a few Justice Department informational bulletins tactfully hidden, and a framed Boston Bruins jersey signed by Cam Neely. Monica, Jake, Alex, and Cody all kept sneaking glances at their boss to see if he was about to snap. The question, though, was when he would lose his shit, and each of them had a bet going on in their own mind as they watched the clock with great interest.

* * *

"Jesus, Wilks, my office isn't a waiting room," Amelia commented as they rounded a corner and saw her office door open at the end of the hall. Five people were crammed inside, and she absolutely dreaded meeting each and every one of them. Still, she walked forward without hesitation, knowing this was the only way she could stay on the case. She only hoped that whoever this Donovan fellow Wilks had mentioned was she wouldn't be dealing with a supernaturally uptight megalomaniac. She was an agent, yes, but it had been years since she'd been the lower ranking agent on a given case, and it was going to be difficult taking orders from an outsider. She just wasn't sure she could deal with some uptight jerk. 

When the folks in her office heard people approaching, they all stood and faced the door. Amelia entered with the most winning smile she could muster and took in the bemused and perplexed expressions on their faces. No doubt, they were prepared to see someone in a suit with pumps and makeup and a manicure: the whole nine. Normally Amelia was the picture of professionalism, but it was the weekend and this was a last-minute call. A couple of them even began to smile. As undercover agents they weren't required to follow the same dress code as the FBI office monkeys.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to special agent Amelia Malcolm. She was in charge of this case and she will be working in cooperation with you now that you're here." Wilks introduced cordially enough. "Agent Malcolm, I'd like you to meet agents Jake Shaw and Alex Cross."

Amelia stepped forward and shook their hands warmly, "Pleased to meet you."

"Their psych profiler, Monica Davis,"

"Hi, welcome to Boston."

"Their technical expert, Cody Forrester."

"Hello."

"And Frank Donovan, the team leader."

"Nice to meet you." Amelia offered, shaking his hand. She hadn't been paying much attention to any of them, what with her blinding rage and all, but he struck her immediately as s singularly handsome man, tall and dark with rich brown eyes. It was the first sign of an asshole. He forced a smile.

"Likewise." he replied with a voice smooth and fluid. He was a sharply dressed man, and she attributed his cold demeanor to her less than exemplary appearance. She was immediately on the defensive, resentful of the haughty and overtly authoritative manner he took. She knew in a moment this was going to be perhaps the single most miserable case of her life, and she forced a grim smile in return before stepping past him and taking a seat behind her desk.

"Well, she said to the gathered crowd as they turned around, "Let's see if we can find three more chairs and get this party started.


End file.
